I Give You A Poem That Starts With Cliché

We all die. And whether I drop

Down to the asphalt like a shooting

Star, one moment here the next not,

Or fade in a soft coasting towards

The great below, a rheostat of life

Dialing into darkness beneath breath,

Or perhaps disappear like a melted bank

Of tired ice and rock

Slogging into April puddles,

Today running a hot trail near home, the satisfying crunch of gravel and dirt

Underfoot, and then suddenly through sweat-drenched eyes

Seven jacarandas revealed and shimmering in a motley row,

Wild life smiling for no reason 

Underneath springtime shawls of purple snow.